Friday, 28 June 2013

My response to having watched Mike Leigh's film 'Naked', and also a commentary on the visitations of my own Landlord.pristine windowsills,stylized furnitureTakes money,And all is filth, mould,condensated ceilings,Hell, and your ideals of it,Nothingness; it is this world.You cannot escape now;nor will you.Just ignore. Ignore, Ignore......Yours,SiBot

Tuesday, 18 June 2013

The desire, indeed act of presenting anything in a
conflated philosophical language must surely require the pleasure of the
individual making the otherwise painful effort toward articulating himself.

On this occasion I do not have the patience nor the
wilful desire for such a pleasure, which would lead to the conflation of my musings
into some analogous form, in turn leading me to not sufficiently express the
extent to which I, dear friends, am at a loose end.

I cannot hope to challenge the bleakness which you
prescribe upon my worldview. I cannot hope, since I have tried and tried, far
more hopeful than any of you could believe, to combat the absurd; to find interaction
beyond affectation. And yet each time the promise of the former delivers the
cruel and hopeless reality of the latter.

The worst of it arises from those who profess and obsess
over the primary presence of interaction, and instead deliver me affectations
in a crueller manner, warranted by this deception of their professed ideals.

To profess that one must resolve one’s own absurd crisis
is to consign each stricken fellow to a world under the floorboards, never to
be seen again; led by one's own convictions, one is merely a stranger to this
world.

Through my rebutted attempts at escape, I can similarly decide that it would be folly to want to amend this worldview on the basis of
convictions entirely centred on another being, when the sort of change
requested emanates from the greatest centre of absurdity that a man could ever
witness.

The conclusion? Don't change, and not merely because it isn't possible.

For all this, I am at a loose end, directionless, and merely
consigned to the wind:

Tuesday, 4 June 2013

A bit of music for you Dear Friends. This was recorded straight, in one take (Guitar and vocals together), with whatever you call the mindless 'solo' in the bridge dubbed over the top (with the audio reduced underneath ;) )... to cover up for my guitar playing in that part, which curiously enough, whilst I wasn't making a mildly irritable attempt at playing and singing, was a mess :S

I have, or had, never done any sort of sound editing/mixing up to this point, so it's all a learning curve, but a very pleasant one that keeps me distracted from distractions. I started playing guitar two years ago when I decided it was not enough to merely hear the same songs over and over, without knowing the process behind these fantastic note combinations. Now I am a bit closer to comprehending, and I find it one of the few fruitful outlets I have for my thoughtfulness, an excellent replacement for some vice or other I could have ended up turning to instead. For this I am very glad dear friends, very glad indeed.
Curiously enough I don't have any particular affection for this song or the artist, it's just very nice to play. You may want to turn your volume up; its all gone a little quiet.

Yours,
SiBot

I get so distracted By some peoples reactions That I don't see my own faults For what they are For what they areAt times so self destructiveWith no intent or motiveBut behind this emotion,There lies a sensible heartA sensible heartSee I'm no kingI wear no crownBut desperate timesSeem over nowBut still I weaken somehowIt tears me apart It tears me apartI hope to learn as time goes byThat I should trust what's deep insideBurning bright, oh burning brightMy sensible heart My sensible heartMy sensible heartMy sensible heart

Saturday, 1 June 2013

My dearest friends attempt to convince me that I am
supposed to be happy, and yet few enough of them prescribe any principled basis
for their own conviction. Owing to this lack of principle is the fact that
their basis for attempting to prescribe me this apparent medicine, escapes any
sort of reasoned diagnosis in the first place. 'He looks absolutely miserable'
one acquaintance is heard to say, laughing at the familiar sight of my sullen
features brooding. Not over anything, just brooding. Indeed, if the sight of
such sorrow provokes a question concerning what I might be thinking, and the
genuine response is 'nothing', then it ought to become clear that I, the
individual in question have long since been lost to all benefactors, or was
never once benefitted, so that my actual vacancy is defined by the affectations
of myself and others, rather than any genuine sense of interaction with the
world.

It is at this point I highlight the use of the term
‘affectation’, against the true notion of ‘interaction’. Concerning the former
I would offer that it represents a pretence in human behaviour quite different
from the reality of the inner-self, in categorical definitional terms, of
course, but also as a feature which defines us as humans.

We prefer to think of ourselves as truly socially interactive beings, capable of directly
passaging our inner thoughts and processes into unmitigated expression in the
external world, when in reality, these thoughts and processes are merely translated to this absurd outside
environment. And yet to those of us obsessed, indeed overcome by the
consequences our externalised thoughts might have, the only way I myself can
attempt to translate this fearful occupancy to you, is to say that upon being
asked what I am thinking in the scenario described above, or in more delicate
settings, to successfully complete this challenge, I am required to respond in
a language I have no comprehension of whatsoever: A book of Pushkin’s Poems is
placed in front of me, and as much as I crave the ability to understand them in
the native Russian, I simply have no grasp of it at all. The Cyrillic might as
well be the brick pattern of the ‘stone wall’, and I would be far smarter not
to beat my head against it.

As such, what you might call the behaviours of an
ascetic, I would rather call the calculus of a logistician, or perhaps even a
programmed machine of nuts and bolts: Where is the basis of an understanding of
a language when no external instruction is given to us whatsoever toward
learning it, and when in this case, the only language we have to draw on (i.e.
English), is one very far removed from what we see written before us.

Is there any way to make sense of it, beyond what we
imagine it might say? Unfortunately
not: there can be no verification of this imagination, unless in this case we are indeed
irrational enough to believe in our own imagination.

Let us say that a successful translation of the unknown language
would act as a passphrase to break down this ‘stone wall’. The result of an
irrationally motivated individual’s continuously flawed attempts would surely
not be a collapsing wall, but a mind collapsed by madness.

I seek to inquire:
What it is that motivates us as humans to keep trying to tear down this wall?

If I and an
accomplice were presented with the wall, and I, through rational calculus
retracted and sat to one side, knowing we could not pass, but my accomplice
continually attempted to break it down, who would be the first actor to be
greeted by madness? Does calculus sooner entail madness due to its early
recognition of hopelessness? And who
is to say that irrationality is not perpetual, and as such, not exposed to the
madness envisaged (as above) by a rational thinker.

After all, my dearest friends to whom I first referred
are convinced of the continued merits of their endeavours concerning one
another, and there I sit, tortured not by my exclusive retraction
‘underground’, but by my inability to convince myself that I can contribute to
this absurd realm in some meaningful
direction. In this way I am jealous of Sisyphus, and I am jealous of all my
dear friends who wake up each day without feelings of crippling skepticism
greeting their minds. It is a mechanical thing of nuts a bolts; a robot, that
is struck, and compelled into retraction, or agency by a ‘thought’, or what might merely be called ‘process’. It
takes altogether more human characteristics to compel oneself into action through thought. Irrationality cannot be
defined by process, and as such I have yet to deprogram my brain away from its
retractable setting.

Take comfort however, dearest friends, for I am still
determined to investigate this absurdity, and I am not so much of an Oblomov
that skepticism shall compel me to the bed until the day’s end, though sometimes
I come very close.

I am perhaps still
in touch enough to look forward to inquiring in my next piece, what exactly it
is that first goes through your head when you wake. Perhaps you could inform me
of these thoughts in the meantime.